Ghosts and Kisses
by SalazarInADress
Summary: There is nothing wrong with Severus Snape. It's the rest of the world that's dark and grey. HPSS/Snarry SLASH WARNING: self-harm; violence; mentions of torment/torture; mental health problems; PTSD


**Title:** Ghosts and Kisses  
 **Written for:** moi  
 **Ratings and Warnings:** warning for self harm; SLASH; mental health problems  
 **Word Count:** ~2k  
 **Summary:** Severus Snape doesn't suffer from PTSD, because he's far too strong for that. If Potter wants to intrude on his life though, he will allow it because the poor boy is obviously damaged in some way from his experiences...

 **Author notes:** NO BETA because I have few friends :D This is just a short piece, like everything I write :3 Please review if you like it, and on other fics you read. You have no idea how much it means to writers, and how motivating it is.

**THIS WORLD AND ITS CHARACTERS ARE NOT MY PROPERTY AND I MAKE NO MONEY FROM THEM. I JUST LOVE THEM AND ALSO WANT THEM TO LOVE EACH OTHER**

There's a special kind of darkness that covers the world for Severus Snape. The shadows are blacker, the whites dirty grey. It creeps in the edges of his vision, interspersed with flashes of green and purple light.

It's there when he wakes, drenched in sweat, heart galloping a losing race. It's there as he decides it's not worth trying to sleep again, and rises to splash his face with cold water. It stays with him all through the day, even in the garden as he weeds around his precious herbs. He jumps at nothing, then throws his trowel in a rage.

It hits him harder in the afternoon, when he sits in the dim kitchen with his elbows on the gnarled table, and can't cry. He sees Lucius at the window, throws a curse. The glass shatters, and the illusion goes with it. He stands up and smashes the chair to pieces.

In the evening, he sits in the library to read, and the words blur together into smudged grey on the page, which blends into the hopeless grey room. All that stands out are his own black robe sleeves. He runs up the stairs to change into his deep green robe instead.

"Please, help me," a woman sobs. He spins around, but there is no one. "Severus, you're my friend." He collapses kneeling next to the bed, stares at his pale hands against the grey grey grey floorboards, and wills his eyes to tears. They do not oblige. His wand flicks out from his sleeve, and he cuts the mattress to shreds. Pieces of fabric and foam fly through the air. When he is done, he stands panting. He stares at the mess for seven and three quarter seconds, then casts reparo.

It fixes everything but him.

He eats two slices of bread with butter, and hears the crack of apparition. He ignores a scream, and Albus Dumbledore.

He goes to the bathroom. His hair is long, past his collarbones, knotted and clinging in ropes. His face is gaunt. He runs a hot bath, then lies in it until it is cold. He does not move when Nagini slithers in, or when the water turns to blood. He does not move when the shivering starts, or when his hands are blue. Grey-blue.

He doesn't move at all, and darkness takes him.

Potter is a mediwizard now. It is... typical. Snape can't work up the aggravation he should feel. St Mungo's is grey, too. The green healer robes match his eyes. Snape says so, and Potter looks at him like he's gone insane.

He turns at the sound of Draco crying, but it's just a lamp shade. He gets his wand back after two days, and places it on his bedside table. He stares at the dark wood for three hours, until Potter takes it away again. He smashes the lamp with his hand, hides the shards of glass under his pillow.

As he is being coaxed to bed, the green light of Avada streams toward him from the corner of the room. He pushes Potter out of the way, stands in the light until it fades.

They sedate him.

They give him his wand again, and he apparates home. The herb garden is in total chaos, so he spends the afternoon tending to it. Potter turns up at his door with a suitcase, makes himself at home in the spare room. Snape cooks for two, then incendio's the snake. They sit among the scorched cupboards to eat.

The boy wants to talk about the war.

What about it? It's done. Over. We won. He doesn't need to bring it up all the time.

He says it's okay to have nightmares.

But Severus Snape doesn't have nightmares thank you very much. Or flashbacks, or breakdowns. He is as he always has been, strong.

He says that even Severus Snape can only be strong for so long. That the mind can only take so much misfortune and torture - and there was an awful lot of torture there, just before the end.

Snape sectumsempra's him for blasphemy, but it is deflected. He has other enemies to deal with anyway, starting with Bellatrix in the library.

It is very difficult to reparo books, particularly magical ones. Snape has not been able to read them recently anyway, so he lies in a nest of shredded paper as Potter hammers on the door to be let in. He still cannot cry.

He hears a young girl's giggle, and stands to find her. He calls her name. Lilly, Lilly, but she keeps hiding from him.

The darkness creeps in and the laughter turns foul, manic. He breaks a shelf from the wall to swing, but he can't seem to hit her. Potter bursts in and stuns him. The laughter stops. Everything stops, and he falls asleep.

He wakes tired, and does not get out of bed. Potter sits on the floor and reads out loud, but Snape isn't listening. He can only hear the boards outside creaking as the guard paces back and forth, and the distant screams. He can only feel the cold of the dementor's presence, and the unyielding stone under his body.

He does not rise for three days.

He redecorates the room in pastel yellow. Potter makes a cheery comment.

No he is not feeling better, because there is nothing to feel better from. There is nothing.

When he sees it again in the evening, Snape cannot distinguish yellow from grey grey grey grey. He cuts his arm and paints it with red streaks.

The death eater has him, pulls his arms behind his back. He fights it off, muggle style. Even sprawled on the ground after a punch, Potter is casting healing charms at Snape. He rises with a lurch and approaches more slowly. Such a drama queen.

Red and yellow are Griffindor colours, he should be happy. He says he'd be happier if Snape would give him the knife.

It isn't a knife, it's a sword. The sword. He needs to give it to Harry Potter, but how? If he gets caught- The room sways, tilts round and round and round until all he can see is Potter's face.

Potter cries, and Snape is jealous. He lies in the boy's arms, on the bedroom floor, until sleep claims him.

This starts a new routine, where Potter stays with him at all times. They sleep together, and Snape doesn't mind because it seems to stop the boy from having nightmares. He has always looked out for the well-being of the children at Hogwarts.

Potter says that he's 22, not a child at all. He wishes that Snape could see that.

Snape looks, and he sees Potter at 22.

He hates that James follows him around. Watches him garden and brew potions. Sits outside the door, listening as he bathes. Snivellus, pranks and the werewolf are what he remembers.

"Please Severus," she cries, and blood drips from the ceiling. He wraps himself in a towel and steps outside. The truth is, he doesn't hear it so much when James is around.

He says he's not James. He's Harry.

Of course he is. Who else would he be, Neville Longbottom? They'd both be dead by now if he was.

Harry cries again. It's all too much for him. PTSD, Snape thinks. The poor boy went through so much. Snape lets Harry sleep on his shoulder.

The days slip by faster now. Breakfast, lunch, dinner, gardening, reading, brewing, sleeping.

Harry asks for a kiss goodnight. Snape obliges, and remembers the taste of Regulus. This is different - sweeter, for all the chocolate frogs. He cries, finally, and thumps his fists against Harry's chest.

He's sorry, he's sorry for not being Regulus. For everything, for all the pain.

Snape doesn't feel pain, and tells him so. He keeps crying, despite this fact, and Harry cradles him in his arms.

They kiss in the morning, like teenagers. They eat breakfast, and Harry must practice being away from Snape. He has grown dependant, though he won't admit it.

When he is gone, a strange spell comes over the house. Colours are muted. There are sounds. Snape escapes to the green garden for the afternoon. Afternoons away turn into days, and Harry returns exhausted wearing green healer robes. They bring out the colour of his eyes, though Snape keeps this fact to himself. Compliments are not his forte.

The kissing progresses to feeling, skin pressed against fiery skin, and body fluids. Harry apologises for this. It's unprofessional, upsetting. They do it again anyway.

It becomes a thing that they do, when neither is too tired. They read, they eat, they sleep and they fuck.

Others start to visit, though Snape will not have sex with them even if they ask, thank you.

They eat dinner on Thursdays: Snape; Potter; Granger; and Weasley. It is awkward, particularly when Snape mistakes them for other people.

He stands helpless and dumbstruck in the hall as Weasley apparates Granger away. Potter wraps thin arms around his shoulders, but he stands stiff.

She was Umbridge. It was Umbridge. She was wearing that horcrux necklace. The amulet.

I know, Harry says. I know.

He hears the screams again now, but it's different. It's not real. Not. Real.

Harry helps when he can, and other times he just stays out of the way. Snape would rather die than hurt him. Between St Mungos and Snape, Harry gets no rest.

It's been a year since Snape released himself from hospital, and the younger man's hair is grey at the temples already. They argue. It's too much work, too much stress and responsibility.

He can just leave then. He could have left any time, no one was stopping him.

No one does.

Snape wakes every morning and has breakfast. He brews, he reads and he weeds the garden. He sets up a mail-order apothecary and does well, on the days when he doesn't smash everything in a fit of fear or rage.

When Lucius appears at his window now, he looks again to see his own reflection. When he hears screams, he puts a record on. When blood washes down the walls, he gets up and walks into a different room. When the fear grips him, he sits and reads a book with shaking hands, and waits for it to be over.

Granger visits, remarks that he is looking well.

Of course he is, because he is well. He is fine.

The apothecary is doing well then.

Yes. He is thinking of opening a shop in London.

Harry sends his love.

Hah. Snape is sure that he does, and good day.

He opens his shop in Diagon Alley, not on the very high street, but close enough to be respectable. He doesn't shout at customers, and only rarely calls them names.

When it is busy, the shop is loud enough to drown out the noises. When it's not, he sits on his stool behind the counter and takes stock or reads through the post - requests, hate mail and the occasional flavour suggestion.

Potter walks past the front every few days, glancing inside, but never enters. For weeks, he wanders by with indecision and worry written all over him. After a few close encounters - creeping closer to the door every time - he makes it inside, a week before Christmas.

The shop looks good, he says. Bright, not at all like other apothecaries.

Snape snorts. Sunlight needn't be a danger to ingredients today, what with advancements in preservation charms.

He wants to go to dinner. Yes, dinner.

Snape considers bringing up the old arguments again, but the circumstances are different. He can tell that Potter has come ready for a fight, and he thinks that he might win. He may as well save the effort and surrender early.

They take a portkey to Spain, to a place where they will not be recognised, and have tapas and wine. They talk, and Potter laughs a lot. Snape ignores Albus, who stands in a corner all evening, pointing at them and looking disappointed.

Being a gentleman, Potter sees him home.

You used to call me Harry.

Harry asks for a good night kiss.

He obliges.


End file.
